Pretending he has wisdom to impart,
He lectures from his well of ignorance.
Bamboozled by his rep, his audience
Accepts this mindless babbling as high art.
They love the odor of his oral fart.
His scattered spittle they call Heaven’s rinse.
Believe me: they are not hard to convince.
He has these poor souls drooling from the start.
You seek to disabuse the crowd in vain.
They’re lost from nasal hairs to fingertips.
About his emptiness, they won’t complain,
Though they’d be better off if his huge lips
Were governed not by his deficient brain
But by the ganglion that rules his hips.

Why on earth are these chubby, hairy guys
Hot to have wild sex with our president?
Their t-shirt propositions they present
In public — which no sage would label wise.
When decent people seek to hush these cries
Of lust, the Trumpophilic malcontent
Redoubles his aggression, won’t repent,
And boasts anew about his phallic size.
Haven’t you noticed, Teddy Bears from Hell,
That Trump loves gorgeous women? This won’t stop
Because your tiny tallywhackers swell
With dark desire. He’ll simply call a cop.
And, even if you worked your come-ons well,
In all of his encounters Trump’s on top.

Lisa and Peter: ah, romantic pair!
We know them chiefly from the texts they sent
And from the feelings that they dared to share
When not adulterating. Their assent
To one another’s words of discontent
Proved to the world that they were kindred souls
And therefore had no reason to repent
While they were striving toward their common goals.
Russians they hated with whole steaming bowls
Of hatred — and Romanians as well.
Pro-lifers they would roast on glowing coals—
And country hicks consign to hayseed hell.
Their conversation: nothing could be sweeter—
When Lisa wasn’t sucking Peter’s peter.